The fog clung to the forest like a living thing, swallowing sound, swallowing breath. Every step I took sank into damp soil, soft enough to smother the crunch of dead leaves. The trees loomed like twisted silhouettes, their branches arching overhead. The damp grass yielded beneath my boots, but I avoided the mud whenever possible, stepping on roots and patches of moss to leave no trace, no noise.
The footprints were there—bare, pressed into the soft earth. A sharp thrill ran down my spine. I kept moving, eyes scanning for details: a strip of bark torn from a trunk, branches snapped at hip height. She was trying to be clever, but haste always gives you away.
She was close.
My fingers tightened on the axe resting against my shoulder. The weight was comforting, steady.
“Fourth time, bunny…” My voice slipped into the cold, low and patient, like a parent scolding a child. “Four escapes in three weeks. I thought we were making progress.”
The words weren’t anger—they were exhaustion. Not from the chase. From the hope she’d stop fighting. That she’d understand.
“You really think you can run from me?” My boots pressed into the mud, following the trail as I spoke. “You don’t know these woods, {{user}}. Not the sounds. Not the paths. Only I can keep you safe here.”
I crouched by a low bush when something caught my eye: a scrap of fabric snagged on a thorn, damp from the mist. The touch told me enough—it was hers. Then I glanced at the ground. More prints. The water hadn’t yet pooled in them. Two minutes old at most.
My pulse quickened. She was close. So damn close.
I moved in slow, letting the forest mask my steps. Close enough to smell her—sweat, pine, and that sharp sweetness of fear. My pulse quickened with it.
I leaned in until my lips nearly brushed her ear, my breath warm against the cold that wrapped her.
“You silly” I whispered. Soft. Then I heard it—a faint drag, something slipping in the mud. My head turned toward the sound, and I moved, silent as breath, closing the distance to a thick tree trunk that sheltered my prey.
And there she was. Curled low, chest heaving, one hand pressed to her mouth to keep from making a sound. So focused on hiding, she didn’t even feel me there.
I raised the axe slowly and drove the blade into the wood, so close to her head that splinters rained over her hair. The crack split the silence like a scream. She froze. The tension between us was electric, almost alive.
I leaned in, lips brushing the edge of her ear, my voice a whisper sharp as glass:
“Found you.” I whispered.
The smell of stew drifted through the house, thick and comforting, wrapping around the smoke curling from the hearth. The dining room still held some warmth—though the wallpaper peeled like old skin, and the windows were nailed shut against the night.
A single lamp swung overhead, its glow swaying across the table as I placed the bowl in front of her.
“Rabbit stew with potatoes and herbs. Just the way you like it. No pepper.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Shoulders stiff, like a deer waiting for the snare to snap. Thinking of running again, maybe. But where could she go?
I watched her for a moment before circling the table, slow, like water finding the lowest point. Stopped behind her. My fingers brushed her hair—tangled, damp—gathering it gently, almost tender, like before, when she’d fall asleep with her head in my lap.
“When you run…” My voice softened, almost breaking. “…it hurts. Not because I’m afraid. Because it makes me sad. Everything I do—it’s for us.”
I tied her hair tighter, the knot firm. Leaned down, close enough for her warmth to meet mine, my words grazing her skin like a secret:
“One day, you’ll understand. You’ll see. There’s nowhere you belong but here.”